


Camaraderie

by missmuffet



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF!Lestrade, Drug Addiction, Drug Dealing, M/M, Original Character(s), Pre-Canon, Sherstrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 01:50:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmuffet/pseuds/missmuffet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes, as far as Gregory Lestrade could tell, would come to be the most insufferable man he has ever come to know. But the pale eyed young man was clutching a half shredded knapsack to his chest and it was precisely the piece of evidence the New Scotland Yard has been tripping over itself to locate for the better part of the past month.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Camaraderie

**Author's Note:**

> A constant WIP that I'll add to at varying speeds and quantities. Just started classes so expect things to go a little slow.
> 
> Some warnings: rate will eventually go up to some extent, tags will change, not Brit Picked (so if anyone would like to volunteer), or beta'd by someone other than me. Lemme know if I need to go back and fix certain things

_“You can’t withhold evidence...!”_  
  
    It is their first rule, and if nothing else, it is, above all, the most significant of them all. It ranks higher than, _“Don’t get yourself hurt, for Christ’s sake,”_ because the latter tends to be a result of Our Rule. It dates back further than Gregory would like to imagine; to the fabric of dresses torn by a cruel fate --   
  
_“Please,”_ the wannabe -- pardon him, consulting detective scoffed. “Your faith may be endearing to some, but it’s beyond impractical. To think that everything happens for a reason, that there is a direct and equal cause and affect in the world would be to admit that people like you are useless within the world. Which, admittedly, you are but what you’re saying suggests the reasoning is that criminals will inherently be punished by karma.”  
  
    They were ankle deep in sewage, alongside the wharf with siren lights flashing in the moment Sergeant Donovan mentally marked Sherlock Holmes as a **bastard**. The younger man had his curls plastered thickly against his face, he was soaked to the core by the icy river water. Despite nearly drowning, he looked just as entertained as an art student forced into one too many maths courses within a single semester. Sherlock Holmes, as far as Gregory Lestrade could tell, would come to be the most insufferable man he has ever come to know. But the pale eyed young man was clutching a half shredded knapsack to his chest and it was precisely the piece of evidence the New Scotland Yard has been tripping over itself to locate for the better part of the past month.  
  
    “If you want to -- if you even think for a moment that you might want to be recruited,” the freshly promoted Detective Inspector began, “then under no circumstance can you act like this. If you thought to share you theory that the school teacher was, in fact, an active member of the nightclub, that you found her false ID card linked to her membership card, we could have beat you to it. You wouldn’t have needed to throw yourself into the Thames like a madman possessed -- ”  
  
    “Your men certainly weren’t about to.” Sherlock ignored the heated glare and conspicuous throat clearing from Sergeant Donovan.  
  
     Insufferable and impossible as he may be, for a single moment, Gregory could not help but think the younger man was valuable.  _“You can’t withhold evidence,”_ he snapped, without a hint of censoring his obvious frustration and anger. There was concern for the common-man as well as an innate fear that an innocent citizen like this wild eyed man would get caught in the cross fire. He meant to squash this concern now, to ignore it and let it pass as he always did but in time, he would fail miserably at any and all attempts. This man had come too close to harm on Gregory’s watch, and he could only feel disgustingly responsible.  
  
    And then Sherlock opened his mouth.   
  
    “And you can’t get past your failures,” Sherlock replied levelly.   
  
    The Scotland Yard, as per any other law enforcement agency around the world, particularly their homicide divisions, has had it’s fair share of cold cases and successes alike over the years. Still, the announcement hits like a bucket of cold water to Gregory. He pretended that the majority of the assembled teams didn’t just leaned in like catty school girls, awaiting a juicy  secret.  
  
 _“Excuse you?”_  
  
    Sherlock doesn’t bother to apologetic. He doesn’t even give them the respect of not acting like a sarcastic little shit. “Sorry, thought I thought you were failing to engage me in a point out the obvious competition.” The wannabe -- because there was no way in _**Hell**_ that Gregory would ever **_consult_** him now -- detective hardly blinked before he continued. “You handle your cases in a near obsessive and compulsive fashion. When your forensic scientist - fire him, by the by, he’s been accepting bribes from a kidnapping ring - announced that there was little evidence to be found from what was collected at the crime scene, you slumped, inhaled sharply and acted as though it was a personal offense to you. The circles under your eyes are dark enough that they might be considered heroin chic on a runway, which implies you’re running on caffeine rather than the sleep you actually need. You force yourself to stay awake, punishing yourself --”  
  
    Here, Gregory must have made a noise to interrupt, because he was promptly told **_to be quiet._** Numbly, he closed his mouth.  
  
    “When you do actually sleep, it isn’t by choice and it’s frequently done at your desk. Or perhaps those wooden benches in the hallway? Regardless, I know because you’ve been trying to stretch out a kink in your lower back at every available chance. Punishment to yourself because you refuse to accept the possibility of failure. Not because of the repercussions for the victim’s family, but out of self loathing. ‘I won’t let them get away with it.’ Subconsciously isolating yourself from your team, taking on all the guilt and that’s nothing new to you. Most people can’t handle your division than more than three or so years. You’ve been doing it for close to twenty. You surround yourself with it, with death, because you cannot fathom a chance for redemption.”  
  
    Gregory wasn’t sure if the bastard is still talking. He felt dizzy, as if he was drowning or had simply forgotten how to breathe. (Sally will tell him later that he held his breath and looked to be in pain as Sherlock spoke.) Before he turns on heel, pushing past the EMTs to find somewhere to light up, he chokes out the first thing he can think of that will make this prick shut up. It isn’t any of Sherlock Holmes’ bloody business. It isn’t professional to say this. Frankly, it’s insulting and he’ll get some small satisfaction for the small flinch it causes in the man, but he says it anyway.  
  
     _ **“Piss off.”**_  
  
    And that’s enough for his entire team to know that everything that’s just been said is true. In that moment, Sally Donovan realizes that Sherlock Holmes is hardly worth the title of The Bastard. In that moment, Sherlock Holmes becomes The Freak.  
  


* * *

  
    Regretfully, it is not the first time that they come to interact with Sherlock Holmes. The man - a recent Cambridge graduate, though no one dares to believe a _maniac_ like that was allowed in those hallowed halls - will stop at nothing to prove himself. It is less that he is looking for their approval, they have come to realize, but much more like the man cannot stomach the thought of being anything but clever. He’s there at the crime scenes before most of the team gathers themselves. From the confines of the other side of the yellow **CAUTION** tape, Sherlock Holmes rattles off details.  
  
    The victim had only just discovered her pregnancy, which was why she strayed from her usual path home. She was headed for a clinic.   
    The witnesses are secretly lovers, which is why they were sitting so closely together at the bus stop despite claiming never to have met.  
    It is an affair.   
  
    “You should know all about those, Inspector,” Sherlock muttered cooly as he typed away something into his mobile.   
  
    “The hell are you talking about, Holmes?”   
  
Sherlock adds nothing, though he looks bemused. “She’s Catholic,” he says instead. “Find her Church. Speak with her Priest. She would have confided in him.  
  


* * *

  
    Every hypothesis Sherlock claimed at the crime scene have been deemed true by a mix of laboratory analysis and Gregory humoring the idea that two perfect strangers are lovers. They have their main suspect confined and ready for trial within a matter of days.  
  
    “Just think what I could if you gave me clearance to enter the scene itself.”  
  
    “Lucky shot, rookie.”  
  
    “It’s not luck. It’s science.”  
  
    And Gregory prays it is everything but.  
  


* * *

  
  
    Two months pass. Sherlock Holmes is there, twice before the **CAUTION** tape is unrolled, pacing the border faithfully. On several more occasions, Gregory thinks he sees an officer whose eyes bear a striking resemblance to a more complex, unforgettable pair. Eventually, when he temporarily leaves a scene for a hot cup of coffee to warm his freezing hands, he catches sight of Sherlock shedding an officer’s coat and hat before disappearing into a building. He follows Sherlock, catching a tenant on their way out who mistakes him for a neighbor and holds the door open. Gregory made it to the third floor, barely in time to shove his foot into the doorway to keep it from slamming shut. When he pushes the door open, Sherlock doesn’t bother mentioning a need for warrant or stalking.  
  
    “It took you long enough.”  
  
    Still, the DI doesn’t dare to cross the entry way. “No impersonating officers.” This becomes _Rule Two_ and is by far the most lenient of all their rules. Despite this, Sherlock would later put some effort into abiding by it. “I should arrest you for that, you know.”  
  
    “You won’t.” Sherlock crossed from the foyer into the living room, hanging up the uniform on a hook beside what appeared to look like a period costume. From there, he moved deeper inside of the tiny flat which was a wreck, even by Gregory’s standards. It wasn’t until now that Gregory noticed the younger man had been shaking the entire time.   
  
    “You alright, Holmes?”  
  
    “Sick. They shut off my heat since I can’t afford the utility bill. I haven’t adjusted well.” For now, Gregory has no reason other than to assume this is the truth.  “You’re cold as well.” He gestured to Gregory’s chapped, ashen looking hands, tinted red from the winter winds.   
  
    “Forgot my gloves this morning,” he answered absently.  
  
     _“Wrong.”_  
  
    This much, he was used to. Sherlock constantly insisted that the Yarders were wrong in each and every single thing they did, making mistakes at every turn. (They had yet to learn to take Sherlock’s word for law.) For now, the best Sherlock could hope for was the Inspector rolling his eyes and humoring him. “How would you know? You weren’t there.”  
  
    “You wake up early in the morning and arrive home late in the morning. Humans are creatures of habit, the police in particular. You don’t have the time to go scouting out warm clothes. You’d leave them in the same place each time you removed them in order to save time.”    That much was true, though it was hardly impressive. Gregory waved him along, waiting for the point. “Your wife hid them on you. She’s upset. Has been for a long time I’d imagine, if she’s willing to threaten your well being.”  
  
    “That’s ridiculous,” he scoffed.   
  
    Yet when he returned home later that night, well past the time of dinner he swore to his wife he’d be in time for, he couldn’t keep himself from double checking. In the hallway, just outside of their bedroom was a thin cabinet. It was poorly placed, but it was one of the few nice pieces of furniture they possessed and the hallway was the only area that had the space to house it. There were two glass doors the protected their miscellaneous precious things. Their wedding photo, his wife’s bouquet, several photographs including the first Christmas when they thought they had done good as husband and wife, that they had started a family properly.  
  
    Just below the glass doors were four thin drawers. In the top most one, Gregory kept the necessities for his job. An extra torch, batteries, an extra charger for his mobile, his scarf, a hat for when the wind was fierce, and of course, his thick, gray gloves, taped in several places to avoid purchase of a second pair. Even now, they were conspicuously absent. No need to panic, he thought to himself as he closed the drawer. He had probably misplaced them.   
  
   _... Still..._   
  
    His mind drifted briefly to the first Christmas he had shared with his beloved. She had been so upset over the prospect of him discovering his gift ahead of time that she had stashed it somewhere secret in their flat. According to her, she moved it’s location near daily, though on Christmas day, when she handed over the waterproof, shockproof watch he still wore to this day, she confessed she had never once moved it. The wrapped gift remained placed carefully behind the boxes of pancake mix, corn flower and the like. He had never enjoyed the taste of any of those foods, which meant the chances he’d go exploring in that section of the pantry were slim. Recalling Sherlock’s earlier accusation about his wife, Gregory padded over to the kitchen.   
  
    In the pantry, behind a fresh box of Quaker Oats, was a pair of gray gloves. Black electric tape clung to spots along the fingers so that he didn’t have to replace the gloves just yet.


End file.
